Of Gods and Monsters
by NagainaFier
Summary: The Dragon crisis has ended, but Asta knows the only way to achieve true peace in Skyrim is to ensure an end to the Civil War. F!DBxUlfric; prequel to Domestic. Written for the SKM.


**NagainaFier does not own Skyrim, nor make any profit off of this story. She only owns the work as a whole, but the world itself is the sole property of Bethesda.**

**Yet another prompt for the SKM.**

**Essentially, the prompter wanted a fill where the Dragonborn has finished the main questline, and is doing her research before choosing a side in the civil war. She really wants what is best for the country, and becomes infatuated with Ulfric and his passion for his rebellion. While I've technically got the power to choose whether she joins the Stormcloaks or Imperials, I think we all know which one I'm going with, since a) It's me writing this, and b) This is the prequel to ****_Domestic_****.**

**This pairing started with me wanting to do something a little different; not having the DB be some spring chicken, fresh-as-a-rose 18 year old who's oblivious to the world around her and comes into herself through the quest lines. I opted for a lady who's lived her life, has some experience under her belt already, and not as bright eyed and bushy tailed.**

**I try to stay lore-friendly in general, but I ****_will_**** deviate from the set-in-stone steps of quest lines because variety is the spice of life.**

_In a land of Gods and Monsters, I was an angel living in a garden of evil_

**- Lana del Rey, ****_Of Gods and Monsters_**

Lydia was upstairs, leaving Asta in the living room, alone to her thoughts as she sat in front of the fire. Eyes drifting, they eventually landed on her bookshelf. Wrapped up in her own mind, the Nord wasn't certain exactly the train of thoughts that led her to remembering a certain dossier laid in her possession.

Her infiltration of the Embassy and subsequent interactions with the Thalmor had told Asta all she needed to know. They did love their paperwork, and the Nord lady had a love for sticking her nose where it didn't belong. This civil war was an absolute waste of time. She _needed _to get the Thalmor out. That much was obvious. Yet while the Empire and the Stormcloaks were wasting time butting heads like rams in rut, they seemed completely oblivious to the sabre cat hiding in the bushes.

Her life never had been able to be cut and dry. Everything was shades of grey when black and white would be so much easier. While Tullius wasn't... _hopeless_... well, she wasn't impressed. As the leader of the Imperial army (at least in Skyrim), the fact that he seemed completely uninterested in learning about the country's people and customs was disheartening. He didn't _care. _Getting the rebellion under control was just another set of orders.

But Ulfric was not the clear winner either.

Debating whether she wanted to move from the warmth of the fire to her alchemy room, Asta picked at the chicken breast sitting on a plate in her lap. Seeming more interested in obliterating it than she did actually eating, a few chunks _accidentally_ landed on the floor, only to be gobbled up by the mongrel stray she'd found some time ago.

He probably should have been given a name by now. Perhaps she was simply putting too much thought into it, but nothing really seemed to fit him. He was simply _Mongrel_ to her, though it was an affectionate term.

The Thalmor needed to be kicked out, and Asta needed to decide what she was going to do about it. Skyrim's peace was delicate and fragile; Alduin had been defeated, but Asta had yet to give any inclination she would tolerate a continuation of the fighting. Apparently her message had been well received.

Life was simpler when the choice was obvious. This was not as simple as deciding what was for dinner. No one seemed aware of this, but Asta had her own agenda to take into consideration. Trapped in a game of politics she couldn't quite play, this was likely her only chance to ensure her personal goals were met.

But ejection of an entire faction that consisted solely of one race was no easy task; especially when Asta had no desire for the Altmer minding their own business to be caught in the crossfire.

The Imperials would be a pain in the ass to get into gear. They seemed to think that blindly kneeling to the Thalmor would lessen the pressure, when the elves were just backing them into a corner.

Ulfric would be more than willing to help her; but at what cost? Asta was not so chained by her hatred of the Thalmor that she couldn't see past the obvious- All Thalmor were Altmer, but not all Altmer were Thalmor.

She was half tempted to wage a one woman war and say to hell with all of them.

Well... One woman and many, many dragons.

Not even bothering to preface with 'accidentally' dropping the food on the floor, Asta stripped the meat off the bone and tossed the pieces to Mongrel, who snapped them up happily. They'd _just_ gotten him to stop begging, but the Nord didn't feel like eating and the stray needed all the extra calories he could get into his mouth. No longer the walking, fuzzy skeleton she'd found on the road outside Riverwood, he was still too ribby for her taste.

Standing, she left her plate in the chair; Lydia would come for it later, or in the morning.

Eventually.

It didn't matter to the Nord.

Despite the fact she enjoyed placing her books on display (the top of the bookcase had become an extra shelf, with the help of some Soul Gems-turned-paper-weights.), there were some things that _didn't_ need to be seen.

Anything she wanted hidden away was kept in her Alchemy room. Now, yes, she could just tell Lydia to stay out of a certain drawer, or out of a room, but the Housecarl naturally found herself wanting nothing to do with the Alchemy room. Keeping her private things here ensured there was no chance of either Lydia's curiosity getting the better of her, or accidentally stumbling across them while looking for something else.

Mongrel watched with a curious expression on his face, ears perked as he lazily rose to his feet and padded over to her (likely hoping she'd drop more food for him), curling up near her chair in front of her lab.

Briefly debating with herself, the woman chose to shut the doors before turning back to her little sanctuary. Eyes didn't trail to the larger bookshelf- no, this time they were focused more on her chest.

To understand the cause, she had to understand the _man _behind it. The Stormcloaks were nothing without their leader; if his head had met the executioner's axe, surely the rebellion would have quelled in weeks without his passionate speeches.

Or maybe another bird would arise from his predecessor's ashes.

Stepping towards the chest, Asta lifted the lid and reach her hand in, rifling through spare potions and scrolls until her hands brushed across smooth leather. Withdrawing, she flipped the cover open.

_Ulfric Stormcloak_

She had the dossiers.

Delphine. Esbern. Ulfric.

The Blades would likely lose their minds if they knew she had these books. Not that she cared much for them any more. If forced with a choice, Asta was always tempted to go with the opposing side _solely_ because they hadn't tried to force her hand. Asta had already decided on the matter. The dragons who accepted that Alduin's views were unacceptable, and chose to either follow her, like Odahviing, or retreat to quiet seclusion like Paarthurnax would be left to their own devices.

Those who went around burning villages would find themselves on the wrong end of her wrath.

Naturally, she hadn't responded well to Delphine essentially telling her 'kill Paarthurnax or I'm not talking to you ever again'. The _look_ on her face when Asta had walked out of the temple!

She was not some fresh young girl who was an empty sponge, absorbing whatever information she came across. At thirty five, Asta was well old enough to be expected to make her own decisions.

Decisions, decisions...

Red, or blue?

Sitting down, Asta flopped the book open. She knew Delphine and Esbern's opinions on them knowing she had their dossiers. What of the Jarl?

Of course, she came to the conclusion, flipping through the pages while Mongrel acted as a foot warmer, that she couldn't know everything she needed to about Ulfric through the book.

No, the pages would not do; just as she had with the Imperials, she needed to meet the man.

* * *

An hour or two passed in the Alchemy room, Asta wrapped up in her own thoughts and flipping through the pages.

All that achieved was the pressing need to get the Thalmor out; they seemed to love keeping _explicit_, meticulous records of everything- including the ways they'd tortured the Jarl; what day, what they did, the result.

What little bit of chicken she'd actually managed to stomach was threatening to kick back up.

A logical question would be 'How does the Dragonborn get into Windhelm while being right under the Jarl's nose?'; She wanted to know what he _really_ thought; not what he wanted to sell to her.

Thankfully, Asta had made the answer ridiculously easy for herself. Anytime she was on 'official Dragonborn business' as it was called, Asta always donned a cowl. Nothing special, but it covered everything except her eyes.

She could hide in plain sight; Surely Ulfric wouldn't remember their brief encounter in Helgen, and he certainly wouldn't guess she was the Dragonborn. The scar that traced her cheekbone and twisted down parallel to her mouth was invisible when she wore the cowl. There was nothing remarkable about her eyes- no flecks of green or gold, or interesting shade of the color; as far as he would be concerned, she'd simply be another blond haired, blue eyed Nord. Dime a dozen.

It was almost child's play.

So, it was settled then. She was going to Windhelm.

Standing, Asta turned back towards her chest of potions and scrolls and ingredients before hesitating slightly. Fingers danced delicately across the simple latch on the chest, before retreating as she decided she would take the dossier with her.

Opening the doors, the Dragonborn made a beeline for the stairs, heading straight to her own room. Lydia's door was open, and it was dark with the exception of a glow coming from the side of the door frame her bed was on; probably lit a candle so she could read, or clean a weapon. It wasn't quite time for sleep, but the entire town was winding down for the night.

"Lydia, I'm leaving in the morning."

"Do you wish me to accompany you, my Thane?"

"No; I'll just be making a trip to Windhelm. Nothing too important."

_Lies_. But Lydia liked to fret, so Asta tended to drop a little... well, a lie here and there so she'd feel better. Though she was very aware that the Housecarl did not approve of her Thane running around without her (and therefor rendering her virtually useless), she couldn't bring Lydia with her.

It wasn't as if Housecarls (who had a strong possessive streak of the person they're suppose to be protecting) were common; they were reserved solely for Thanes and Jarls, and while he would know she was no Jarl, it wouldn't take too much guessing. Everyone knew that despite all her wandering, the Dragonborn always came home to Whiterun, that she was Thane of the town which insisted on holding the war in a deadlock. No one (dragons included) ever caused problems with Whiterun, knowing that Asta would come kicking down their door.

All she wanted was peace, and while not her first choice, she was not averse to using short term violence to achieve the long term goal of prosperity.

Have the Dragonborn, have the town. Have the town, have the war.

She wouldn't be someone's pawn in this little _game_.

Mongrel scampered up the stairs (he was still having some difficulty completely comprehending how to go up and down them) after her, following his mistress into her bedroom. Knowing he'd sit and paw at the door if she shut him out, she waited for him to clear the doors before shutting them.

Might as well sleep early; there was nothing else to do, and she planned to leave at dawn; Windhelm was a long ride.

Having not left the town all day, Asta was dressed in a simple green gown. Reaching behind her, the stays in her bodice were quickly loosened, the dress falling to the floor.

Lifting and folding the thing, she put it away before slipping into her nightshift- a light, breezy thing as summers in Whiterun weren't as freezing as in other places; and even if it did get nippy, she had bedfurs and a large, furry space heater.

Deciding to pack now, rather than later, Asta wandered about her room and stuffed things into her bag. The dossier at the bottom, clothes, light armor, potions, a few pieces of jewelry, and daggers. Casting a longing look at her Drainblood Battleaxe, Asta sighed wistfully. No- that would be an enormous give away. She had a lovely selection of enchanted daggers she could handle just as well. Her bow and quiver were downstairs- so long as she didn't walk out the door half-asleep, she'd grab them before leaving, in addition to packing food.

Setting her pack down in the chair near the door, Asta blew out the candles before crawling into bed.

* * *

It was still dark when Asta awoke. Good; she hadn't overslept. Windhelm was a hard two day ride, and even though the bitter cold (at night, no less) would be a pain to deal with, she wasn't one to piddle around just because the weather wasn't sunshine and rainbows.

Never one to dwadle in that 'half-asleep' stage, once Asta's eyes were open, she was up. There was no rolling over and going back to bed.

Casting Candlelight in the far corner of the room, she slipped from under the covers. While she'd been hoping to be able to slip out without Mongrel waking, it seemed that the task had been futile. The moment she'd shifted he'd began to stir, giving her those accusatory eyes. He didn't leave the bed, but shifted to watch her while she tossed the night shift in favor of some flexible leather armor. Heavy armor never had been her forte, and she needed something that would also be comfortable for riding- both for her and her horse.

Grabbing her pack (which while she was packing light by _her_ standards, was still fairly heavy), Asta slung the thing over her shoulders before walking out the door. Canlelight dispersed as she left the room, and then she heard a light thud, followed by the sound of scrambling claws against wood. Poor Mongrel; she always felt bad about leaving him, but Lydia liked the dog as much as she did. The Nord had her own assumptions about his past- Mongrel clung to her like a toddler to his mother's skirts, and while he wasn't aggressive towards people, every now and then he'd flinch if Asta or Lydia made too sudden a move.

Reaching a hand down to pat him on the head, Asta wasn't surprised to see he'd shrunk back a bit before raising his head to get some ear scratches.

Giving him a 'all done' pat, she continued on down the stairs, nearly tripping and falling to her death when Mongrel decided he wanted to try and beat her down them.

Picking up her bow from her weapons rack, Asta secured both it and its quiver on her back.

Now for food... She wouldn't need to bring too much- it was just a two day trip and she could buy a meal or two someplace along the way. Never one of the people to push her horse to his limits, Asta normally walked or trotted the majority of the way for long distances, and gave him a break while she ate a meal in some town.

The hearth was still lit up, casting warm shadows on the lower level of the house, so Asta rooted about in drawers for some non-perishables. Tossing what she found in her bag (plus an extra apple or three for her horse), the woman gave an extra go-over through her pack, making sure she had everything. Daggers on her hip, and Asta was ready to walk out the door.

And then Mongrel gave her that soft little pathetic whine that always tugged her heart strings. _Damn that dog. _Only had him for a month, and he knew how to play her like a fiddle. Of course he wanted to come along; she wanted to take him with her (he'd make cold nights much more bearable) as well, but it was impractical to bring him with her on this trip. Crouching, she gave him a good, thorough scratching right behind his left ear (which had both his tail and a back leg thumping against the wood wildly).

"You can't come with me this time. Sorry, buddy. Take care of Lydia while I'm gone."

Standing up, Asta ignored the pleading gaze while she exited the house. She could hear that pathetic little whine again, begging her to open the door and let him come with her. They'd already played this game before. He might whine for a while, maybe bark a few times, but he'd get the message and then go back upstairs and pester Lydia until he let her in.

The guards let her out without complaint, despite the early hour. Dawn wasn't for another hour or so, but Asta always liked to get a head start. The sooner this war was under wraps, the sooner she could get on with her life.

Walking towards the stables, Asta was left to her own devices, so naturally her mind started to wander. Before the Dragonborn crisis, she'd been a simple woman with a simple life. A hunter for the Jarl, she'd followed the herds and and dragged the meat back for the vendors and businesses so they'd have something fresh.

Imperials had taken her horse from her. That _really_ hadn't sat well with Asta. The eight year old gelding had been Asta's thirtieth birthday present to herself, five years ago. After finding sanctuary with the Jarl, Asta had happened across her horse when she'd found a camp of dead Imperials. And he'd been dressed in Imperial horse armor. He'd been hers to begin with, and his 'current' owner had either died or ran off somewhere else. Not her problem. She had his sales papers.

Much as she loved him, her horse was a hunt horse, not a war horse. He was fine with arrows whistling by his ears towards a deer, but he didn't have the moxie for swords slashing near his flanks.

Speak of the devil; as she continued down her moonlit path towards the stables, she could see her gelding munching on some grass. They must have put all the horses out to pasture with the nice weather.

Once she got to one of the gates, Asta pulled out an apple; That got Rusher's attention immediately, the gelding trotting to close the distance before breaking down to a walk and finally stopping by her, immediately lipping at the apple. Having not had the foresight to cut it to slices previously, Asta had to wrangle half of the apple out of his mouth before he tried to swallow it whole and choke himself to death.

Opening the gate, Asta didn't bother with putting a halter on him. Instead, she laced her fingers in his mane, right on his pole and directly behind his ears. Despite the fact the massive monster of a horse could pop her shoulder right out of its' socket if he wanted, the horse followed her lead as gently as a puppy on a leash. Walking him towards the empty stalls, Asta parked him in front of a feed bin that had a pile of hay next to it- he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Gathering up everything she needed, Asta went through the usual routine when prepping Rusher for a long trip; nice, thorough brushing, clean his hooves, give them a good check to make sure they didn't need to be trimmed, brush him again, put the pad and saddle on, all while the black boy munched happily on his breakfast. Checking everything once more, Asta bridled him and walked back to the main road before mounting him, heading off towards Windhelm.

The trip was actually fairly uneventful. Asta stayed on the main roads rather than trail blazing as she normally did, which immediately cut down on the odds of running into predators. While there were always exceptions, they simply didn't hang around where there was a strong chance of people being present. What problems she did encounter were quickly handled with a stealthy arrow followed by a blast of fire.

She was competent enough with long range, but over the course of her travels, the woman had developed a deep seated love for close range- specifically her battleaxe. It was like Extreme Polo, swinging the thing from atop Rusher's back (though of course, the gelding did not approve in the slightest).

* * *

It was early morning when she finally arrived in Windhelm. The stablemaster , an Altmer, had been a nice fellow, taking her sweat slickened horse to get a well earned, thorough cleaning from the tips of his ears to the bottom of his hooves. Asta would have been lying if she said she wasn't surprised to see an Atlmer tending horses, happy as a clam. Ulfric was not known for his open minded, hospitable disposition towards the other races- especially the Altmer.

**I will update this as I go along. I'm trying for 3-4K chapter lengths. Unlike most of my projects, this hopefully will maintain some semblance of frequent updates. Remember; Reviews make a happy writer, and a happy writer makes more chapters faster :) But in all seriousness, like I said; While I will be deviating from the _quest lines_, I like over all lore, but am sadly very new to TES lore. If you see me straying, let me know so I can fix it.**


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